


The Life We Choose

by MissDavis



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 30 Days of Sherlock, Angst, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Multi, Parentlock, Retirementlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-04
Updated: 2016-09-30
Packaged: 2018-08-13 00:36:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 30
Words: 16,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7955230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissDavis/pseuds/MissDavis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>30 Days of Sherlock...and the Watsons</p>
<p>Based on the "30 Days of Sherlock Challenge," a series of ficlets from the points of view of Sherlock, John, Mary, and, of course, Alice Watson: <em>I have three parents. Some of my friends have three, too, or even four, but none of them has three who all live together, which makes me the luckiest out of all my friends.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Shopping

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [30 Days of Sherlock](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7929796) by [AtlinMerrick](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AtlinMerrick/pseuds/AtlinMerrick). 



> Inspired by [this tumblr post](http://atlinmerrick.tumblr.com/post/149555897153/30-day-challenge-sherlock) from [AtlinMerrick](http://archiveofourown.org/users/AtlinMerrick/pseuds/AtlinMerrick). Of course I've put a Johnlockary spin on the idea. :)
> 
> Please note that these chapters do not happen in chronological order!

Sherlock scanned the nappy display, scowling at images of infants who looked happy but were clearly inferior to Alice, who was home with her father, probably shrieking her head off because it was time for her next feeding. "Is it really necessary to color-code children who can't roll over yet?" he asked.

"No." Mary lifted her arm to point to a package on the end. "Get those. Not the smallest, the next one up." She gasped on the last word and dropped her hand to her middle. 

Sherlock paused in the act of reaching for the nappies, eyes flicking over Mary: raising her arm had strained her stitches, and she'd walked too far to get to the baby supplies in the back of the shop. About what they'd expected, but she'd insisted on going out today. John hadn't wanted her to go by herself—with good reason, obviously—and since no one thought Sherlock was ready to be alone with Alice, here he was, shopping for nappies.

He shoved two packs under his arm, then turned to offer his other arm to Mary. She took it without comment and they walked slowly to the front of the shop. While she paid he went outside to hail a cab, as anxious as she was to get back home to the—their—baby.


	2. Gardening

John found Sherlock sitting on the ground outside, fighting with the lavender plants again. "You forgot your hat," John said, by way of greeting.

"I'm in the shade." Sherlock dropped the clippers and reached for his spade.

John stepped closer and put his hand on Sherlock's head, the graying curls a bit thinner now but still as wild as the plants Sherlock was trying to tame. They'd lived in the cottage for three years, and Sherlock spent a large chunk of each spring trying to make the right plants grow in the right places. Mary's vegetable garden was fairly self-contained, but Sherlock's flowers popped up everywhere. "I thought you were going to let it grow where it wanted this year."

Sherlock paused in his digging to stare unblinkingly at John until John laughed. "Yeah, that doesn't sound like you, does it?"

"Hm." Sherlock pointed at the paper bag he was using to collect his debris. "Don't just watch. Be useful."

John fluffed Sherlock's hair and then knelt next to him, knees creaking in protest. "You could pull them out entirely and plant something else."

"No," said Sherlock. "I like the smell of lavender." He leaned over and brushed a quick kiss across John's cheek before turning his attention back to the plants. "Watch you don't get stung. It does attract bees."


	3. Gifts

For his 40th birthday, Sherlock threw a party. At his request, no one brought him presents. Over the past year he had already received all the gifts he could ever need.

From his brother, Sherlock received an entire year free of Moriarty or any other international criminals attempting to end his life or the lives of those he loved.

From his parents, Sherlock received unwavering support as he spent a week detoxing, three months in rehab and every day after that saying no. They had done this before with him but this time he was determined they would never have to do it again.

From John and Mary, he received a new type of relationship with the two people he loved and cared about most in the world. Also, over the past three months: 37 blow jobs, 7 instances of heterosexual missionary-style sex, 22 opportunities to top John, 19 instances of being topped (twice by Mary with a giant purple dildo) and his favorite, 243 kisses, which it turned out were much more exciting to catalog than types of tobacco ash.

From baby Alice, well, she hadn't yet turned one, but the day before his party, she started to call him Da. He recorded it on his phone, and showed it to everyone who came to the party on his birthday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm now 3/3 with the 221Bs so maybe that is a thing.


	4. Kisses

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one ended up being longer than a 221B, but I am happy because now it is actually Day 4 and I am all caught up!

Mary was the first one to kiss Sherlock at a crime scene. John was there, too, standing on the far side of a dead body. Sherlock said that the step-brother had done it, John said, "Brilliant," and Mary stood on her tiptoes to give Sherlock a peck on the cheek. Everyone noticed—Lestrade, Donovan, Anderson, two young uniformed coppers whom Sherlock had never seen before—but it could've easily been brushed off as a chaste, friendly gesture. Except that Sherlock stopped talking and moving when he realized that Mary had just kissed him in public, and then when he started moving again it was to reach for her shoulder and draw her back in for a second, proper kiss. John made a high, sighing hum of approval and then rushed around the dead body to grab them both by the hands. "Text if you need us again," John shouted at Lestrade as he dragged Sherlock and Mary outside to hail a cab.

John was the first one to kiss Sherlock in front of Mrs. Hudson. She made a little sound of delight, followed by a gasp of horror when Mary strolled out of the kitchen holding a tub of ice cream and a spoon. "Oi, you started without me again?" Mary said, and Mrs. Hudson didn't make any noise for a moment, then repeated her sound of delight. Sherlock took the ice cream from Mary—he was very hungry, and it was triple chocolate—and Mrs. Hudson babbled happily to herself as she bustled out of the flat.

Sherlock kissed both John and Mary in front of his parents the second year they were all invited for Christmas. Everyone was gathered awkwardly in the sitting room, the baby had gone down for her nap, and Mummy had just asked what they'd all been up to. Sherlock thought about it. The week before Mary had helped him track down and take out a high-level Russian bureaucrat who'd been running a child-prostitution ring for decades. John had stayed home and covered for Mary at work, because someone needed to be around to pick Alice up from nursery. That entire situation seemed too difficult to explain to his parents, so instead he got up from the sofa and kissed first John and then Mary, five seconds each, full on the lips with just a hint of tongue. He was certain that would forestall any more unwanted questions. It did.

Mycroft was there, too; he rolled his eyes and gulped a whole glass of Scotch in one go. Sherlock knew he'd known about the assassination, but he was happy to see that the kissing had been a surprise.


	5. Work

Alice had been talking non-stop since Sherlock had picked her up from school. He was listening intently to her—sort of. He may have been filtering just a tiny bit. But he was paying attention. He took his child-rearing responsibilities seriously, and anyway there wasn't much else for him to do on the cab ride home. There were just so many words in most of her sentences that he could only listen to about a quarter of each one.

"And Mummy has to work and Daddy has to work but you never have to work so that's why you get to watch me and I'm learning how to tie my shoes and Mummy says I have Daddy's eyehand ordination but I'm learning and—"

Sherlock caught the last bit of that one. "Your daddy has excellent hand-eye coordination," he said absentmindedly. "Wait. Back up a moment. What makes you think I never have to work?" He turned away from the cab window and its view of barely-moving traffic to look at her.

"You don't work." Alice said and, amazingly, stopped talking so she could dig for something buried in her school bag.

Sherlock adjusted his coat around him and swiveled to face her more fully. "Of course I work. I work at least as much as Mummy and Daddy do." He knew John and Mary would dispute that, but if you factored in time spent in his Mind Palace, plus the fact that he was much more efficient than either one of them at nearly everything he did, then it was true.

"No, you don't." Alice pulled a blank piece of crumpled paper out of her bag and smoothed it across her tiny thigh. "Mummy and Daddy go to work every day, and Daddy wears his tie and Mummy puts on her white shoes and they both wear a stet'scope in their ears when they get to work but you don't do any of that."

He smiled and reached down to pick up a pink crayon that had fallen from her bag. "I may not have a stethoscope, and I certainly don't wear ties or white shoes, but I assure you, Alice, I do my fair share of work."

She narrowed her eyes at him and Sherlock tried to figure out where she'd picked up such a skeptical attitude. "Like what?" she challenged, putting her hand out for the crayon he was holding.

He gave it to her. "Just this morning while you were in school I helped Scotland Yard catch a man who robbed a bank." He wasn't supposed to talk about crime or anything "disturbing" with Alice, but he thought that detail was fairly innocuous.

Her eyes widened and she dropped the crayon again. "Did he kill anyone?"

"Er, no. He just robbed a bank. He took a lot of money."

"But he could have killed someone, right? But you stopped him before he did! And I bet Scotland Yard loves you now because you helped and—"

He cut her off. "See? I work. That's my job. Solving crimes."

"But that's not a job. Those are your cases."

"Yes. My cases are my job."

"No, they aren't!" Alice laughed and bent over to pick up her crayon, straining against her seat belt. Sherlock reached down to grab it for her once again. She took it from him, straightening up and shaking her head. "How could cases be work for you? You have too much fun for them to be work!"

He chuckled and sat back in the seat, nodding in agreement. "You're right. They are a lot of fun. I guess I'm just a lucky man."


	6. Hair

Sherlock had spent the night in their bed, which was unusual but not unwelcome, except for the fact that he'd ended up in the middle. Mary woke as the sun came up to find herself relegated to the edge, without enough blanket to cover herself. She slid off the mattress, stumbling to her feet, then stood in the cool dawn light, watching John and Sherlock sleep. They looked perfectly natural together: John, flat on his back, holding his own against Sherlock's full-body sprawl. The early morning sun seeping around the curtains fell across the tops of the pillows; soon it would be in their eyes, and they'd both wake up groggy and hungry and needing the loo, but for now the light just played off their hair, highlighting the gold streaks left in John's gray and the hints of red in Sherlock's still-dark curls. 

John's hair was short at the moment; he would let it grow for another couple of months, until he declared it long enough to be annoying and then got it shorn a bit too aggressively for Mary's taste. When Alice was a baby, he'd gone through a phase for a few months where he'd worn it combed back from his forehead, but he'd grown tired of having to style it daily and soon cut it short again, which suited him better. No fuss, nothing fancy, but enough variation in color and texture to be endlessly fascinating. That was him—that was John Watson. Sherlock was just the same. Though he spent far more money and time on his hair, he hadn't varied the style over the years, and the way he wore it wasn't too different from what his hair did naturally on its own—those curls were real, and so was the color. In the near-decade that she'd known him, no more than a small scattering of silver strands had appeared on his head.

Mary lifted a hand to tug at her own sleep-ravaged hair and wondered how had she ended up here with John and Sherlock, when she herself was so different. They were both so sure of themselves, of who they were, but she had never had that security. Even now, happy as she was with her life today, she tried out a new look nearly every year, a new hair style with each season: pixie short, longer with curls, bleached blonde, darker blonde, brown for a few weeks until she couldn't stand the memories it brought every time she looked in the mirror. At least she was long past the days where she had to color it herself, huddled on the side of a motel bathtub with a bottle of bleach and a questionably-stained towel. She could afford to pay someone to do it for her now, and the coloring she chose was as much to cover the gray as to hide herself from her past.

She slipped out of the bedroom, not bothering with her dressing gown or slippers. She ignored the nearly inaudible internal whisper that told her to leave—take nothing with her, just grab her coat and shoes from the front hall and go. She wouldn't, of course, but the whisper was there. But she had nowhere to go, no desire to reinvent herself yet again, no way to find the path back to who she might have once been. Instead of leaving she climbed the stairs to Alice's room. There was no sun yet on this side of the house. Mary stood in the doorway watching the pink glow of the nightlight make her daughter's young face even younger, thought about how Alice's hair was no longer strawberry blonde even in the sunlight, but was starting to darken toward her father's sandy color. Mary's hair had been that color, once, or so she thought, but the only pictures she had were blurry and faded, so the memory could have been false. 

She tried without success to imagine what she would look like if she let her hair grow out without any interference. She couldn't recall a time when she'd let herself be completely natural. She hadn't changed the color until she was in her twenties, but she'd been not much older than Alice when she'd started fussing with her hair, curling her fringe and teasing it to elaborate heights. Everyone had done it, back then; Mary had just been trying to fit in, to disguise herself without even knowing why, simply because she was a teenaged girl. 

Alice turned over in her sleep and Mary tiptoed away from her room, unwilling to wake her at this early hour. She pushed all the thoughts and regrets of her own past out of her mind. It didn't matter if she never went back to the person she'd been so many years ago. She had other roles, now, wife and mother and lover and more. She would never again be a young girl with soft and wavy light brown hair, but, then, she didn't need to be anyone else besides who she was now.


	7. Love

Love

_By Alice Watson, Year 5_

I have three parents. Some of my friends have three, too, or even four, but none of them has three who all live together, which makes me the luckiest out of all my friends.

Sherlock is not really my father, Dad is my father, but when I was little I called Dad "Daddy" and Sherlock "Da." But that got confusing to other people when I got older, so now most of the time I just call Sherlock "Sherlock" because it's easier but sometimes when one of us is sad I still call him "Da."

Even though I have three parents I only have two grandparents who are Sherlock's parents but they are the best because they have a big house in the country and a yard that sheep come visit sometimes and a room in their house that is full of books like a library. And because I'm their only grandchild they spoil me a lot with biscuits and also money when it's not even my birthday.

When I was four, my mum got really sick and my dad stayed at hospital with her for a week and I stayed in Sherlock's flat and he took me to the hospital every day to see her and she would smile even though she was sick. When we were leaving on the second day we passed by a room with lots of new babies in it and I said I wished I had a little sister and Sherlock said he was sorry and then he took me out for ice cream for lunch.

When my mum got better is when Sherlock moved in with us and it's a little crowded sometimes but he also has his own flat still that he goes to when he needs to think for his job. Also Mrs. Hudson lives there and he goes to check on her and when I go with him she also has biscuits.

Once I saw my dad crying but I didn't know why, and then Sherlock came and hugged him and I wanted to run up and hug them both but I didn't and then Mum came and took me outside to blow bubbles.

Sherlock never cries but sometimes he doesn't talk and sometimes that's for a case but when it's not Mum and Dad don't let him go off to his flat by himself. Sometimes he sneaks away anyway and once Mrs. Hudson called and Mum drove me all the way to Grandma and Grandpa's house while Dad went to talk to Sherlock which took a very long time but I got to sleep in Sherlock's old room which has a bigger bed than I have at home.

Anyway I'm going to stop writing now because it's 500 words and that's long enough and this is a rough draft and I have to work on fixing my run-on sentences. Also the subject is supposed to be love and I think it is but I need to write a topic sentence that goes at the start.


	8. Cuddles

To say Sherlock was having second thoughts would be an understatement, but he was here now and so were John and Mary and he _wanted_ to do this—it was just harder than he expected to actually go through with it. He'd spent so many years trying to ignore his own sexuality that it was not easy to let his defenses down.

"If you want to just watch, that's fine," John said. "It's all fine."

Sherlock smiled at the familiar words and then nodded. "I'll watch." He dug his toes into the short nap of the rug and exhaled, settling back in the armchair next to the bed. His shoes and socks and jacket were off and that seemed to be enough for now. 

John and Mary went slow; he could tell from both their expressions that they were not usually so hesitant or gentle with each other, but he wasn't sure if they were acting that way for his benefit or because they were nervous, too. By the time they were both fully undressed and engaged with each other, he was comfortable enough to do a bit more than watch, but he stayed in the chair and took care of himself, as unobtrusively as he could. He knew they were glancing at him occasionally, trying to be subtle about it, but given that they were letting him watch what they were doing he didn't think he had cause to complain. And watching them was much better than he had imagined—having two people he knew and loved naked and panting only a few feet away from him was infinitely more erotic than any of the porn he'd ever seen on John's computer. They were close enough that he could've reached out and touched them if he'd wanted. Maybe next time he would. 

He finished before they did, wiping himself up with a few of the tissues from the box on their nightstand and then quietly getting up to wash his hands in the loo. He emerged in time to see an expression on John's face that he'd never allowed himself to fantasize about—that may have been a mistake on his part, because it was quite a beautiful expression. He stopped in the doorway and stared—apparently for a moment too long, because John collapsed back against the pillows and Mary rolled off of him and then they both looked at Sherlock and grinned. 

"So I take it you enjoyed watching?" John's voice was deeper after sex than it normally was, it was interesting to note.

Sherlock shook himself and tried to regain his dignity. "Yes." He lifted his chin and strode back to the safety of the armchair. 

Neither Mary nor John seemed to mind that they were still naked and on display for him. He had no idea how they achieved that level of comfort, given that it was obvious neither of them had ever had an outside party observing them before. 

Mary reached for her knickers and John grimaced and wriggled closer to the edge of the mattress. "Wet spot," he explained, and leaned over the bed to find his own pants. Sherlock watched the muscles in his back move beneath his skin and again thought about reaching out to touch. He closed his eyes and waited for the urge to pass.

He let himself look again when they both had their underwear on. Plain white cotton for them both; no one was trying to impress anyone here, and they were both comfortable being themselves. And being with him, too, apparently. He felt a little bit of the tension that had lingered after his orgasm drop away.

"You know, Sherlock," Mary said, when she'd fastened her bra and freed her hair from the clip that had held it out of her eyes. "Whatever you want to do really is okay. If what we're doing is too much, just tell us, or if there's ever anything you want to try, anything at all, don't be afraid."

"I'm not afraid," he said, and refrained from biting at his lip like a child. He took a deep breath. "There is something. I—with Janine. It was something I enjoyed, so maybe we could try it."

Mary raised an eyebrow and John spread his arms across the pillows he leaned against. "Anything," John said.

Sherlock stood up from the chair and considered unbuttoning his shirt. "I was thinking, if neither of you are opposed, and you're not in a hurry to get me out of your bedroom...." He took another deep breath. "Maybe we could try some cuddling."


	9. Flower Crowns

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I admit that this was not my favorite prompt, particularly coming as it did amidst a bunch of other super-fluffy prompts (like tomorrow's is balloons?). So basically I was like, hmm, flower crowns...and murder. Sorry!

"Seriously? You called me all the way out here on a Friday afternoon for this?" Sherlock knew it was his own fault for not double-checking to make sure the case was worth his time, but it was more satisfying to berate Lestrade. "The boy died of a bee-sting."

"Yeah, we know that, thanks. Multiple bee stings, actually, though just one might have killed him because he was allergic and we've found no sign of his EpiPen." Lestrade looked even more rumpled and harried than usual.

"Teenaged boys think they're immortal," Sherlock said. "He wouldn't have carried the EpiPen with him." Alice was nearly a teenager; she was generally a sensible child, and Sherlock could only hope that didn't change in the coming years.

"Yeah, that's what his mother said. She's the one in tears over with Donovan." Lestrade waved his hand toward the school building. The boy's body was still on the ground outside, between the football pitch and the running track. His schoolbag lay next to him; it looked as if he'd been using it as a pillow. "Don't even think about going over there to talk to her."

"I'm not. I'm thinking about going home for dinner. Might bring Chinese back, everyone is always so grateful when I do." He tried to keep his voice dismissive enough that Lestrade wouldn't realize how much the sight of a dead teenager had unsettled him. 

He turned as if to leave, knowing Lestrade wouldn't let him go. Two steps and yes, there was Lestrade, grabbing at his arm, so reliable and naive, as if he could physically prevent Sherlock from leaving if he wanted to. Sherlock shook free from his grip and turned to face him again. "What? The mother thinks it's murder—she's not correct because there was no intent, but there clearly was foul-play involved. He knew he was allergic to bees; he might not have wanted to be seen carrying an EpiPen, but he would have known better than to fall asleep wearing a flower crown." He motioned at the dead boy. The slightly withered flowers than circled his forehead somehow made the scene more macabre. "Why do you need me to tell you this?" 

Lestrade sighed. "I don't. I need you to tell me who did it."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "There are three hundred teenagers in that school behind you. Take your pick."

"According to the mother—and you're still not allowed to talk to her!—he didn't have any enemies, but he didn't have many friends, either. The couple of boys he occasionally mentioned to his mum were both in class when it happened. He came outside on his lunch break to nap in the sun. Someone came along and put this flower crown on him, and three bee stings later he was dead. A third of the school has lunch at the same time, and I'd like to avoid interviewing over a hundred upset teens. Tell me where to start."

Sherlock pulled out his phone and hit the frequent contacts list. "I still don't know why you called me." 

"Who are you calling?"

"No one. I'm texting Alice. She can solve this for you."

"What, you're out-sourcing your cases to a twelve-year-old now?"

"She's eleven." Sherlock said, and quickly typed out a message. _-Describe type of student most likely to weave a flower crown of daisies and ivy and place on sleeping boy's head as a prank. -SH._

The response was prompt, if the grammar was a bit lacking. _Um girl btwn my age & Yr 10?_

Helpful, but not enough. _-Narrow it down. -SH_

_Flower crowns r from tumblr & instagram, so geeky, prob a fangirl, maybe 2 of them together. Is this a case?_

_Yes. DI Lestrade says thank you and he will buy you a doughnut the next time he sees you. -SH_

Sherlock forwarded the messages to Lestrade and then pocketed his phone. "That should narrow it down to no more than a handful of students who had lunch at the same time. Though I'm sure they didn't intend to kill the victim, I trust they'll think twice before making flower crowns again."


	10. Balloons

Due to circumstances beyond his control—a fascinating case involving poisoned spring water and dead frogs—Sherlock was not able to plan and organize Alice's third birthday party. He trusted her parents could do it on their own—they'd helped him with the first two parties, after all—and he made sure to solve the case and get back into town on the morning of the party itself. 

He arrived at the house several hours before the party was to start, then stopped dead in the entryway to the elaborately decorated living room. "What are those?"

"What, the party favors?" Mary looked up from where she sat on the sofa, arranging a tray of frilly little gift bags. "They're mostly filled with sweets. Ariana from nursery has a peanut allergy so I'm checking the labels. We're giving them way too much sugar but I think that's expected at this age."

John wandered in from the kitchen and plopped down on the sofa next to Mary. "And I've already volunteered to eat anything that does have peanuts on the label so you're too late for that, sorry."

"No." Sherlock swallowed; he definitely had no interest in eating at the moment. "What are those?" He pointed to the dozen or more brightly-colored balloons that littered the floor.

"Oh, we didn't want to bother getting a helium tank. It's more fun for the kids to play with them this way anyway."

The thought of a gaggle of toddlers grabbing, squeezing and possibly _popping_ those balloons was unbearable. Sherlock bent and began to collect them in his arms, disliking the feel of latex against his skin but seeing no other option.

"What are you doing?"

"Moving them out of reach," he told John. "Help me. We can tape them above the mantel." 

John didn't move to help him and Mary squinted at him. "Sherlock, are you afraid of balloons?"

"Don't be ridiculous."

"Oh my God, you're afraid of balloons."

"Why would I be touching them if I were afraid of them? Get me some sellotape."

"No." Mary stood up, hands on her hips, while John just stayed sitting and smirking. "We're letting the kids play with them. We're going to have a popping contest at the end of the party so we won't have them hanging around the house afterwards."

Sherlock inhaled sharply. "What kind of mother are you? That's not safe! What if they put the broken pieces in their mouths?"

"They're all three and four years old, Sherlock. They know not to eat balloons. Relax."

"I think he's afraid someone's going to try to rub one on his head and mess up his hair. In fact—" John jumped to his feet and reached for a stray balloon.

Sherlock threw all the balloons he'd gathered at him in a pre-emptive strike. "I just think we need to be responsible and consider this carefully."

"We have," Mary said. "You're being unreasonable."

"You're afraid of spiders," he retorted.

Mary sighed. "Yes, but that's normal and Alice doesn't want spiders at her party." She looked up at him and gave him a crooked grin, then stepped gracefully over the scattered balloons to take him by the arm. "The balloons are staying, but we can keep them away from you. You can be in charge of the piñata."

He frowned at her and she added, "There are sweets in it, but also little toys. Some of them are tiny plastic magnifying glasses. And they don't hit it with sticks at this age, they just pull strings that are attached and one of them will make it fall open."

That sounded manageable enough. Refereeing ten or twelve tiny, sugar-addled children as they scrambled to gain trinkets and more sugar was certainly preferable to watching them pop balloons. But next year he was going to make sure he cleared his schedule enough to allow him to be in charge of the party-planning.


	11. Cooking

Alice came home from school and threw her bag on the kitchen table and Mary braced herself for a another skirmish in the ongoing battle of parenting a teenager. Rather than do anything that could be construed as striking the first blow, such as telling her to get her filthy school bag off the table where they ate, Mary just smiled at her and continued chopping up peppers for the stir-fry.

Alice stood with her hands on her hips and a scowl on her face staring at the peppers, though Mary knew she liked stir-fry. It was one of the few dishes everyone ate without complaint. Well, Sherlock usually left most of the vegetables on his plate, but he didn't complain. 

"Want to grab a knife and help?" Mary ventured. Alice was usually willing to help out around the house, and more likely to respond positively to this than to a reminder to get started on her homework.

The scowl deepened and she crossed her arms over her chest. "Why? Because I'm a girl?"

"No, because you're standing in the kitchen and it's almost dinner-time and I could use some help."

"So why don't you ask Dad or Sherlock, hmm?" 

"Because neither of them are standing in the kitchen looking like they need something to do."

"Oh, right." Alice flipped her hair back behind her shoulder and returned to the hands-on-her-hips pose. "Not because cooking is a woman's job that neither one of them would deign to do and you automatically do it because you were raised to think that's your place in life."

"Er, no." Mary tipped her chin down but looked up through her fringe at Alice, who had somehow managed to grow ever-so-slightly taller than Mary in the last few months. Mary was both happy for her and annoyed at her height.

"Right," Alice said, and gave a snort.

"Alice, Dad made veg lasagna on Tuesday. There's still some in the fridge if you'd rather have leftovers again. I don't, and so I am cooking dinner now."

"When was the last time Sherlock cooked dinner? How come you let him follow old-fashioned, sexist gender roles?"

Mary wasn't even sure where to begin with that topic. She sidestepped it instead. "Do you want to eat a meal that Sherlock cooked?"

Alice pursed her lips. "That's not the point. The point is that we shouldn't have to do all the cooking and cleaning and housekeeping and rubbish like that just because we're women."

Mary sighed. This was clearly an important issue to Alice, and, to be honest, it was important to Mary as well. It was just there were so many ways that their family didn't adhere to traditional roles of any type that she had a hard time believing Alice actually thought it was a problem. "I like to cook. It takes my mind off things. Dad doesn't mind cooking, but he has a limited repertoire. Sherlock is not allowed to cook in this kitchen unless everyone else including you is too sick to get out of bed. What he does in the kitchen at Baker Street is his business. If you don't like to cook, that's fine. You don't need to. I can chop up the peppers and onions on my own. But if you're not going to help you need to sit down and get started on that essay you have due Monday."

Alice narrowed her eyes and Mary looked down at the chopping board, reminding herself that she herself had once been 15 and known everything, as well. There was a long enough silence that she thought Alice was going to drop the subject, but no. "Name one thing you do in this family that's not stereotypically feminine. You're a nurse and Dad's a doctor, for God's sake."

Mary took a deep breath and chopped a piece of pepper small enough that even Sherlock would not be able to avoid eating it. She could think of plenty of non-stereotypical activities that she'd engaged in at one time or another; she tried to think of one that was legal and appropriate to discuss with her young teen daughter. "I make sure every bill any of us has is paid on time, and I control all the money in our accounts. Sherlock would be homeless on the streets if he had to take care of his own finances, and Dad could do it but he would be angry and stressed about it all the time. It's easy for me to do."

Alice's glare didn't lessen. "That's not enough. You shouldn't be stuck in the kitchen every night after work--"

"Wait a minute." Mary set down the knife and wiped her hands on the towel that sat on the worktop. She might not be able to deduce at Sherlock's level but sometimes she was pretty good at sudden flashes of insight. "Is this whole conversation just an elaborate way to get me to agree we should go out for dinner tonight?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why yes, I do have a 12-year-old and an almost 15-year-old daughter. Why do you ask?


	12. AU

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to apologize profoundly for this chapter, because instead of writing a legit AU, I decided to take this version of Sherlock/John/Mary and put them into the "alternate universe" of my own fic [Breakable](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2522717/chapters/5605520) because I really, really like to write angst sometimes.

Sherlock knew he had to call Mary. He knew a text wouldn't be enough, that he needed to speak to her, that he should've done it already. Instead he collapsed into one of the plastic chairs lining the wall of the hospital waiting room. His phone was still in the pocket of his coat; he'd shoved it in there as he climbed into the back of the ambulance after John. He could feel its weight pressing against his hip—he needed to take it out and call Mary. He would in a minute, as soon as the room stopped wavering in and out of focus and his now-empty stomach settled and he could breathe normally again. As soon as he knew what to say.

Mary appeared in front of him before he had a chance to make the call. He didn't see her come in, but he wasn't looking in that direction. He wasn't looking in any direction. He was just...waiting. When he realized she was standing in front of him he made himself look up and focus. "How did you--?"

"Mycroft," she said. Beneath her coat she was wearing her pajamas, he realized, the cozy, warm ones she wore when she was going to have a quiet night in and no sex because he and John were out on a case.

"How did Mycroft--"

"I don't know." She turned away from him, scanning the waiting room and the silent hall beyond it. "Where is he? Where's John? Sherlock, where's John?"

Her whole body was trembling through her coat. He'd never seen her so frantic, not when there'd been an attempted murder at her wedding, not when she'd shot Sherlock and then rushed to hospital to try to keep him quiet about it, not when she'd been rushed to hospital herself, only minutes away from giving birth. He understood. He lifted his hand from his lap—it seemed unusually heavy—and pointed down the hall. "They took him to surgery. They wouldn't let me go with him."

She made a small, pained noise and turned to face him again. 

"Go," he said. 

Mary reached out to brush her hand along the sleeve of his coat and then left. He watched her cross the empty waiting room; she was wearing trainers shoved onto bare feet, but she didn't run so much as stutter across the room, narrowly avoiding the clusters of chairs as if she didn't see any of them until she was nearly upon them. She headed to the desk next to the doors to the surgical unit. Maybe they would let her through. Probably not. Sherlock had half-expected John to protest when the doctors and nurses stopped him from following them, but by that point John had been only semi-conscious, too far gone into pain and shock to object, and Sherlock himself had been too overwhelmed to do anything but drop into a chair and wait.

He should get up now, follow Mary, see if she learned anything new from the nurse at the desk. And even if it was too soon for any updates on John, he should be at her side, supporting her. He took a deep breath and didn't move. He sat in the chair and thought about Mary being home in her cozy pajamas and how if John had stayed with her tonight he would not be lying on an operating table down the hall while surgeons worked to stabilize his broken spine. Sherlock wouldn't be here waiting to see if he lived or died. _No, he won't die._ If he were going to die he would've done so when he hit the ground, or as he lay sprawled in the alley waiting for the ambulance. John's injuries were grave— _permanent_ , a voice whispered—grave but not fatal. _People die from surgery all the time. A reaction to the anesthesia, a blood clot, a slip of the scalpel._ No. Not John.

Sherlock leaned back in the chair and put his hands on his thighs, trying to convince himself to stand up. He should go to Mary, hear what the nurse behind the desk was saying. Or. He should get up and leave, walk away and never come back, remove himself from John and Mary's lives because he'd never be able to bring them anything but pain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry! But it doesn't really happen--this is the AU ficlet!
> 
> On the other hand, if you enjoy this sort of thing and want 117,000 more words of it (minus Mary), you'll want to read [Breakable](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2522717/chapters/5605520), if you haven't done so already.


	13. Animals

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back to 221B's for the next couple of chapters.

John probably shouldn't have been surprised when he opened the door on Alice's seventh birthday to find Sherlock's parents standing on the stoop...with a puppy.

"How cute!" he said, as he let them all in. _Please tell me you adopted a puppy yourselves and it's not actually a gift for Alice._

Mr. Holmes bent to unclip the leash from the tiny yet rambunctious dog—some sort of terrier, it looked like—and Mrs. Holmes smiled. "Well, we know how sad Alice was when Sparkles died."

 _Ah, yes. The hamster you gave her that finally kicked the bucket so now I don't have to spend my Saturdays cleaning tiny shit out of a cage anymore._ He smiled and thought about spending the next 15 years scooping dog poo instead. "Yes, the fish tank just doesn't hold her attention like it used to—she wants something she can pet." _And drag around the house and dress up and forget to feed._ "Alice, your grandparents are here," he shouted upstairs. 

The dog made a beeline for the kitchen and he heard Mary exclaim in undisguised delight. She never seemed to mind these surprise animal gifts from the Holmeses. Neither did Sherlock, for that matter—he'd probably love this one. And Alice would think it was the best gift she'd ever had for her birthday.


	14. Comfort

John wanted to comfort Sherlock, to hug him and say he understood, but Mycroft was in the way. John lingered in the doorway of the bedroom, watching the brothers squabble as they attempted to decide which necklace to bury with their mother.

Sherlock's voice started to escalate toward shouting and John stepped into the room. They'd opened the windows but the air still smelled of old age. He wondered what they were going to do with the house.

"A little old Italian lady with a walking stick just dropped off more food," John said.

The distraction halted the budding argument. "Mrs. Brunelli," Mycroft said. "She often berated me for stealing tomatoes from her garden."

John blinked, imagining. Mycroft stared back; John could see the skin around his eyes was puffy, his grief not as obvious as Sherlock's, but there nonetheless. Another aspect of the family resemblance, beyond their finely-cut suits and stiff postures as they sat side-by-side atop the quilt on their parents' bed.

Sherlock looked up, bottom lip caught between his teeth, and John crossed to stand by the bed. He settled his hand on Sherlock's shoulder, watching Mycroft's gaze narrow. After a moment he put his other hand on Mycroft's arm, felt him tense and then relax, head down, as he sorted through his mother's jewelry with his brother.


	15. Fall

Sherlock was browsing the news on Mary's tablet—the battery had died on his, and he couldn't find the cord—when John charged past him, through the kitchen and out the back door.

He frowned for a moment and then sprang up from his seat and followed, a reversal of their usual habit of John running after Sherlock. There must be some reason for John's behavior, though what could be so urgent in the backyard, Sherlock couldn't imagine. Alice and her friends were playing outside, yes, but Sherlock's hearing was as good as if not better than John's, and he'd heard no cries of distress, only the laughter that follows children old enough to venture outside on their own and still young enough to enjoy it.

He reached the small patio just outside the door and paused, blinking against the unusually bright sun. A beautiful spring day—the children were right to spend it outside. They were—oh. 

Alice and one of the neighbor boys were perched on top of the neighbor's shed. The boy was sitting on the sloped roof while Alice crouched, peering down at the ground. She waved at John and Sherlock—Sherlock stepped back into the shade next to the house, knowing John would not welcome his presence in this particular situation.

"Alice!" John never yelled at his daughter, but he yelled her name now. Sherlock could see his fists clenched at his sides, could imagine the way the vein in his forehead must be popping out. John had stopped at the edge of their patio; the shed was on the far side of the neighbor's lot, a good 20 meters away from where he stood. He didn't go any closer; he just stood in the sunlight and screamed at Alice. "What are you doing? You need to get down from there!"

Alice straightened up to standing, a couple of feet from the edge of the roof. "I know!" She pointed to two more children who were on the ground next to the shed. "Halley and Mason already jumped. It's my turn next!"

"No!" John launched himself across the yard—four steps and he went down, foot caught on the handle of a badminton racket hidden in the grass. Sherlock reacted immediately, intending to help, but John pushed himself up to his knees before Sherlock could do more than take a step in his direction. "Do not jump! But get down here! Carefully!"

The two kids on the ground were staring at John, who was generally seen as the most calm and permissive of Alice's parents. This outburst must've been quite a shock to them. Sherlock wished he could say he didn't know why John had reacted so strongly to seeing his daughter preparing to jump off a roof, but he did know. He swallowed and wondered if he should offer to help Alice get down or if it was better to stay out of John's sight.

Alice moved one of her feet slightly closer to the edge and John screamed her name again. 

"Okay, okay. Calm down, Dad." Alice looked at the boy on the roof next to her, who shrugged.

"You, too, Jay!" John shouted. "How'd you even get up there?"

"There's a ladder." Jay motioned behind himself, and then he and Alice half-crawled, half-walked back over the ridge of the roof to the far side of the shed. Sherlock could hear them clambering down the ladder they had used to ascend. 

John stood for a moment, staring at the shed, then turned abruptly and strode back to the house, passing Sherlock on the patio without a word or even a glance. He slammed the door shut behind himself, leaving Sherlock outside to explain to the children why they weren't ever allowed to jump off the roof again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wait was this supposed to be about autumn?? Come on, it's a Sherlock fic.


	16. Hidden Talent

John had the hoop almost fully assembled by the time Mary and Sherlock got home. He was using the garden hose to fill the base with water to stabilize it when they both appeared at the back door.

"What is that?" Mary stood staring out through the screen until Sherlock tried to push past her and they both spilled out onto the patio.

John turned off the tap and looked up at his handiwork. "It's a basketball hoop. Obviously."

"Why is it on our patio?"

"So I can teach Alice how to play basketball."

Mary almost choked on her laughter and John tried not to take offense. It wasn't like he'd ever told her he could play.

Sherlock strode across the patio to pick up the basketball John had bought. John raised his hands, expecting him to toss it, but instead Sherlock held it away from his body as if afraid it might bite him. 

John sighed and jogged over to take the ball from him. He dribbled it a couple times, then turned toward the basket and squared up. It was an easy shot—he wasn't far away—but he was still relieved when it went in with a neat little swoosh of the net. It had been a while since he played.

"Nice," Mary said, raising an eyebrow and tilting a hip toward him.

He smiled and grabbed the ball before it could roll off into the grass.

"Isn't this a sport that favors those with height?" Sherlock asked.

"Yeah?" John threw the ball at him. "Show me."

Sherlock caught the ball before it could hit him in the chest and John was suddenly sure that he had miscalculated, that Sherlock could probably sink a buzzer-beater from half-court with his eyes shut. Then Sherlock attempted a shot, a two-handed heave that hit the edge of the backboard but was not even close to the hoop.

Sherlock frowned in confusion. "It should be simple. It's just physics."

"Yeah, well, to start with you want all the force to come from your dominant hand," John said. "The other one is just there to guide the ball." He held his empty hands up to demonstrate the correct form. 

Mary stepped closer to him. "Where did you learn to play basketball?" 

"We had a lot of downtime in Afghanistan, and there were a lot of Americans around."

"Oh, so John learned to handle balls from the Americans." Sherlock scoffed. "No wonder he's never mentioned it before."

Mary laughed and took another step towards John. "You want to show me how you put it in the hoop again?"

John grinned at her and picked up the ball. Mary laid her hand atop his, caressing the leather between his spread fingers. "You're not interested in learning to play, Sherlock?" she asked.

He squinted at her. "It's just physics," he repeated.

"Yeah, well. Maybe it's time you learned some science besides chemistry," John said. "Come on over here. I'll show you both how to play ball."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah, this is the third fic I've written that features John playing basketball. *shrugs* I dunno.


	17. Makeup

Mary realized that she hadn't heard any excited chatter coming from Alice's room in some time, which meant that it was time to go see what she and her friend Hannah were up to. The bedroom door was open, so they weren't purposefully being secretive—that was a good sign. But when she stuck her head into the room, she found Alice and Hannah sitting on the floor with their shirts off, surrounded by what appeared to be the entire contents of Mary's cosmetics drawer.

Her first thought was they were playing some version of "doctor," though the makeup didn't really make sense in that context. Should she tell them to put their shirts back on or let it pass without making a big deal out of it? 

Before she could decide what to do, Alice looked back over her shoulder at her. "Mummy! I didn't know you were standing there."

"Hi, sweetie." Mary stepped into the room. "What are you two girls doing with your shirts off?"

"Oh! We're playing scars!" Alice held up a tube of Mary's lipstick, and then leaned out of the way so Mary could see how she had used it to draw a series of criss-crossing lines on Hannah's back.

"Alice, what--?" 

"See, I drew scars like Sherlock has on his back. And Hannah drew one on me like Daddy." She turned around and presented her front to Mary. Sure enough, Hannah had used Mary's blush and powder on Alice's left shoulder in an attempt to re-create the scar from John's gunshot wound.

Mary knew it was normal for young girls to play with their mother's makeup, just as it was normal for them to be curious about their naked bodies. The desire to give each other scars was not something she'd anticipated, though. "You're not supposed to go into my makeup drawer without asking, Alice."

"But how else are we 'sposed to draw scars? And I still need to do some on Hannah's front for her, so she can be like Sherlock."

The most prominent scar on Sherlock's front was actually from an appendectomy, but that wasn't the one that came to Mary's mind first. She swallowed and tried to keep her voice light. "Hannah doesn't need to be like Sherlock. And this isn't what we use makeup for."

Alice held the lipstick tube up to her face, frowning at it and pursing her lips as if she meant to apply it. "But making scars is more fun than regular makeup."

Okay, it was possible they needed to make some long-term adjustments to their parenting style. "Anyway, you girls are too young to wear makeup."

"But you painted my fingernails at Christmas!"

"Yes, for a special occasion only. And just nail polish, and you're not allowed to use it without me. Help me pick everything up and we can go have some lunch." 

Alice put the cover on the tube of lipstick. "Do you have any scars, Mummy?"

"Some."

"I've never seen your scars."

"No, they're hidden. Come on, let's get you two washed up." She picked up their discarded shirts from the floor.

"But we want scars."

"Sweetie, scars isn't a good game to play. It hurts when you get scars for real."

Hannah, who had been silent up until now, suddenly jumped up and ran across Alice's room. "You have Rey's lightsaber! We could play Star Wars after lunch!"

"I also have Kylo Ren's mask but I keep in the toy chest so I don't get scared at night." Alice raced over to join Hannah, leaving the makeup forgotten. 

Mary bent to gather up the scattered compacts and brushes. She'd have to throw out the lipstick; that was her favorite shade, too. Makeup wasn't supposed to create scars; it was meant to hide them. Alice would have to learn that eventually. For now Mary would just let her play.


	18. Holding Hands

The walk to the far side of Regent's Park, which Sherlock had done hundreds of times in the past, seemed to take three times as long with a baby in tow, especially one who refused to sit in her pushchair for more than a minute but was still several months away from walking independently. Mary ended up pushing the pram, empty except for the nappy bag stowed in the basket underneath, while John carried Alice most of the way to the zoo. Sherlock trailed along behind them, accustomed to moving at a much faster pace. He wondered why he'd accepted their invitation to tag along in the first place. Surely Alice was too young to appreciate the outing; she might squeal every time she saw a furry animal, but when she was older she wouldn't even remember the trip. 

He was kidding himself. He knew why he was here. The last couple of months with John and Mary had been...surprising, to say the least. Satisfying. Much more enjoyable than he had anticipated. And they'd recently started spending more than just late evenings together; Sherlock had spent the night a few times, not minding the fact that John snored and Mary got up every two hours to use the loo. Yesterday he'd shown up at their house with takeaway for lunch and stayed until midnight, and then this morning Mary had woken him up with a text inviting him to accompany them on Alice's first visit to the zoo. He'd thought it a fine plan, despite the early hour, especially since the zoo was so close to his flat. But now that they were here, standing in the queue for tickets, he was beginning to doubt the wisdom of the decision.

The zoo and the park around it were crowded with all sorts of families: parents chasing toddlers, siblings stealing one another's candy floss, doting grandparents, harried single mothers, fathers eager to please children they saw only on the weekends. Sherlock fit in with none of them. Maybe he could have passed as an eccentric uncle, but he clearly wasn't a family relation—he looked nothing like either John or Mary. He rarely noticed their height difference—after all, he was only somewhat tall, and John was short for a man but not unusually so, and Mary was practically average height—but standing between them as he was now he felt like he towered over them both, awkward and out of place.

Normally when he felt ill at ease he would deflect attention by making a cutting observation about someone else, but he didn't think John or Mary would appreciate that at the moment. Actually, they probably wouldn't even notice. They were too busy bickering over the fact that they had both forgotten to buy the zoo tickets online ahead of time so they could save a few pounds. He didn't want to get into the middle of their little domestic, although he was, quite literally, already in the middle of it—as they stood in the queue they kept leaning in front of him to quietly accuse each other of wasting money. 

He glanced over at the sign listing admission prices and considered buying them all a yearlong family membership, which would allow unlimited visits. Convenient, given how close the zoo was to Baker Street, and maybe repeated visits would mean Alice would remember when she was older. Then he read the sign's details: a family membership was valid for two adults and up to five children. Of course. Why would he think he could be included in their family?

He stepped back, so he was behind John and Mary in the queue, rather than standing three abreast. He could leave; it would be fine. They would step closer to one another and then they would be just like the other families, two adults with a tiny blond child who was clearly theirs and not his.

Alice babbled and reached an arm over John's shoulder, toward Sherlock. He tipped his head down and smiled at her, but didn't reach out to touch her. It wouldn't make a difference to her if he walked through the zoo with her family or not. He took another step back. There was no more room after that—he would need to either leave the queue or bump into the people behind him.

He was about to step to the side and leave when John glanced back at him, brow furrowed. He expected him to say something, to call out the fact that he was no longer standing with them, but he said Mary's name, softly, instead. 

Mary frowned at John, then briefly looked at Sherlock. Her frown deepened, and Sherlock braced for more complaints about the price of admission, but Mary didn't say a word. She let go of the pushchair with her right hand and reached back towards Sherlock, grabbing at his arm.

He let her tug his hand from his pocket. "What are you—?" he began, but Mary shook her head and turned back to the front—the queue was starting to move. She slipped her hand into his and didn't let go. Next to her, John shifted Alice to his right hip, took a step forward as the people in front of him moved, and swung his left arm back, fingers extended, clearly offering his hand to Sherlock. Sherlock took it, and let the two of them guide him forward into the zoo.


	19. Date Night

Sherlock braced his hands against the dashboard as John took the corner far too quickly. "If we die in a fiery car crash, they won't ID our bodies for hours, which means that Alice will still go on her date, but you won't get the chance to meet the boy." 

John slowed his speed but not by very much. "I thought we'd be home a couple of hours ago. I thought you'd solve that case faster."

"Hmm." Sherlock reminded himself why John was on edge, and that it had nothing to do with how fast he had solved the case, which he'd done quite efficiently, as a matter of fact. "Give your daughter a little credit, John. She's not likely to fall for a boy who won't treat her properly."

"She's only fifteen."

"Nearly sixteen," Sherlock corrected. 

"Fifteen," John repeated. 

"And how old were you when you went on your first date?"

John took his eyes off the road for longer than was strictly safe. Sherlock flapped his hand at him. "Pay attention to your driving."

"You're not helping soothe my fears," John said, but at least he turned back to the road in front of him again. "And how is it that you're so calm about this while I'm so nervous?"

Sherlock shrugged. "She's your baby girl." 

"Don't give me that. You're every bit the protective father that I am."

Sherlock smiled but said nothing. He suspected the reason he wasn't worried was because the only real relationship experience he'd ever had had been with John and Mary, and while he knew theoretically of the hazards dating and falling in and out of love entailed, he himself had been spared any significant heartache. In fact he sometimes got a little worried about just how easy and comfortable he found their relationship to be. Best not to mention that to John, though; it would make him unbearably smug.

John growled under his breath as the traffic around them increased and he was forced to slow down again. He glanced at his watch and shook his head. "Well, there's at least one good thing about Alice going out on a date."

"What's that?" Sherlock shifted in his seat, trying to find a more comfortable position; traffic had slowed to a crawl and they would not be getting home anytime soon.

"The three of us will have the house to ourselves all evening."


	20. Pining

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have to preface this by saying that "pining" is definitely not where my interests lie, and I wrote a good chunk of more than one ficlet before finally coming up with this idea. Ugh.

From: jhwatson01  
To: jhwatson01  
Subject: Things That Are Not The Way They Should Be

The stupid screen-tablet-thing that Alice gave me does not work right, so instead of typing up chapters for my book, I am writing an email to myself on my phone. I can write whatever I want because no one uses email anymore and even Sherlock won't bother snooping in my account.

I knew retirement would a little boring, but I didn't know it would be this sad. Everything is so quiet, which makes no sense, because I still live with Sherlock and Mary, but instead of running off on cases, Sherlock is spending all his energy gardening, and Mary is either helping him or baking because she says I'm losing weight.

I am not losing weight but I am losing muscle from sitting around all the time because my knee hurts. I think I liked it better when the pain was psychosomatic because at least then there was the possibility that I could wake up one day and it would be better. Now all I have to hope for is that the joint's deteriorated enough to get it replaced soon, and that I can get through the months of recovery and rehab without too much more pain. 

I miss having something to do. Maybe I should look for some part-time or locum work. Someone around here must need a doctor, and my bad knee hasn't really affected my skills. Most GP work is done sitting down, anyway. Except I don't really want a new job, because I don't really miss my old job. I miss my old life. Which is silly, because the most important parts of my life moved to the country with me. Right now they're down the hall arguing about what setting we should keep the toaster on.

I'd say that retiring to the country was a mistake, but I think the real mistake was simply growing old, and there's no way to fix that. I made an appointment to talk to the knee surgeon next week, so maybe that will help. It better, because I don't know what else to do to fix this.


	21. Birdwatching

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More Retirementlock! 
> 
> I did another 221B because I'm trying to get ahead a couple days so I can work on all my other projects.

"It's getting dark. Can we leave? Birds don't come out at night."

"Nightjars do." John looked at Sherlock, who was sprawled on the ground, having elected not to carry a camp chair into the forest clearing. "They're crepuscular."

Sherlock sighed. "When I said you should get a hobby, I meant something like beekeeping or chemistry."

"Those are your hobbies. This is mine. You two didn't need to come."

Mary scooted her chair closer to John, though she'd stopped pretending to use her binoculars. "We wanted to be with you," she said.

"Mary said I had to come in case your knee acted up and you needed help getting back to the car."

John glanced over at Mary, who smiled sheepishly. "Well, I wanted to be with you." She stretched. "This chair is killing my back. Think I'll join you down there, Sherlock."

John shook his head. If they wanted to lie on moss and bugs, let them. He scanned the trees, listening for the distinctive deep trill of the nightjar's mating call.

After a few minutes he heard a deep sound, but it was coming from the ground next to him. He looked down at Sherlock and Mary, tangled together and panting. Well, that was one way to keep Sherlock occupied. Maybe John would join them when he was done birdwatching.


	22. Rainy Days

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A missing scene from Alice's essay on love, from another point of view.

Mrs. Holmes took an umbrella outside; it was pouring rain and she didn't want Alice to get soaked on her way into the house.

Mary met her halfway up the path. She didn't have an umbrella and was hunched into her jacket but Mrs. Holmes suspected that was more from stress than an attempt to stay dry. She pulled the jacket tighter as they walked down to the car, but her voice was calm and steady. "Thank you so much for watching Alice on such short notice."

"Oh, anytime. We love to have her here. Have you heard anything more about Sherlock?" It hadn't been a complete shock, when Mycroft and Mary had called in quick succession earlier this afternoon, but it was disappointing. Sherlock had been doing so well, these past few years. She'd almost thought that the Watson clan had been a positive enough influence on him that she could stop worrying.

Mary shook her head, pushing wet hair out of her eyes. "John got the phone call from Mrs. Hudson and went tearing over there and I haven't heard from him since."

Mrs. Holmes pursed her lips. "Well. He's certainly done this before. I'm sure he'll be fine."

Alice opened the car door, having freed herself from her car seat. "Grandma!"

"Hi, sweetie! You got bigger again—how'd you do that?"

"Grab your bag, Alice." Mary was already opening the driver's door to get back in the car. "I have to go quick now but I'll be back as soon as I can." 

"I know. As soon as you and Daddy finish helping Sherlock." 

Mrs. Holmes exchanged a glance with Mary and then turned her attention to Alice. "Grandpa's made too many scones, so you'll have to help us eat them."

"Yay!" Alice bounced out of the car and bounded toward the house, not bothering to wait for the umbrella. It probably didn't matter; she remembered Sherlock loved to play outside in the rain at that age. Or maybe that was part of the problem—maybe she'd been too permissive with him. Maybe if she'd given him more rules, reined in his wild behavior as a child.... That was not a productive line of thought. She'd done her best, and now it was time to focus on the next generation. She hoped Alice would escape some of the problems her own boys had had, simply by virtue of not sharing the Holmes DNA. 

She stepped closer to the car and put her hand on the open door but didn't push it shut yet. "Take care of him, Mary."

Mary nodded. "I will. And I hope Alice isn't too much of a handful for you."

"Oh, she'll be fine. She can help Grandpa with his puzzles if she gets bored."

Mary gave her a small, forced smile and then pulled the door shut and started the engine. Mrs. Holmes stepped back and reminded herself that she shouldn't worry needlessly. Sherlock had done worse to himself before, that was certain, and worse had been done to him, as well. She glanced at Mary's car backing down the drive and mentally reinforced the barrier blocking off the details of certain incidents that had occurred before Alice was born.

When the car was out of sight, she picked her way carefully along the path back to the house. Alice had disappeared inside and was no doubt raiding the kitchen with her grandfather already. Sherlock would be fine. He had John and Mary to look after him, and Mrs. Hudson would help if she could, and Mycroft was nearby if he needed more serious intervention this time. All she had to worry about right now was Alice, and let the rest of the family take care of Sherlock.


	23. Stargazing

"No, Sherlock, you have to lay on the bed, too, so we can look at the stars together!" 

Sherlock sighed. He was never going to get out of this room. He'd assured John and Mary that he would have no trouble putting Alice to bed on time, but they were already half an hour behind schedule. And he really, really wanted her to be sound asleep by the time her parents got home. "You don't lay on the bed; you lie on the bed," he told her, and then proceeded to fit himself onto the edge of the mattress that she had left for him.

"Oh, we need to turn off all the lights so we can see the stars!" 

Sherlock complied by reaching over to switch off the small bedside lamp she had insisted he turn on a few moments ago. When the room was dark, they could see the stars—clusters of raised glow-in-the-dark stickers that had been affixed across the bedroom ceiling.

"I asked Daddy to make the constellations but he said it was more fun to just look at them and make up my own."

"Hm. Daddy is a wise man," Sherlock said. He'd have to remember to tease John about not instilling a proper knowledge of the constellations in his daughter.

"I see a lion and a rabbit and a peanut butter sandwich." Alice pointed to each in turn. "What do you see?"

Sherlock shifted to get a better view of the whole ceiling and felt something small and sharp stab into his lower back. He squirmed a hand beneath himself and withdrew a small piece of plastic, which he held aloft. It was hard to tell in the dark, but he thought it was pink. "I see a Lego. Why are there Legos in your bed?"

She snatched it out of his hand. "They're not called Legos, Sherlock. They are LEGO blocks or bricks. Not Legos. Although this one is actually a plate. A two-by-four plate. "

"I stand corrected," he said. "Or lie corrected, rather." He moved his right shoulder and found another piece. "A one-by-four plate?" he ventured once he had extracted it.

"That one's a tile because it's smooth on top. Thank you. I couldn't find that piece when I was building my castle yesterday." She took it and then tossed it over him, onto the floor. "Now lay down and tell me what you see in the stars."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I dunno I just really like Legos. (And I will continue to call them that even though it really is supposed to be LEGO bricks.)


	24. Sickness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BTW I love angst, sorry again!

Mary let herself into 221B. She had a key in her handbag and could have asked Mrs. Hudson to open the door if she needed to, but Sherlock had left it unlocked, which she took as a good sign. He wasn't in his usual sulking spot on the sofa, though. That wasn't fair of her, she knew—he wasn't sulking this time. This wasn't something he could control.

She didn't call his name, but she made enough noise moving through the flat that he would hear and know it was her. She found him in his bedroom—though he spent most nights at the house with them, he still slept here, occasionally. She understood that he needed to be by himself sometimes, but this time he'd been away for too long.

She pushed the door open all the way and took a step inside. "Hey." 

She wouldn't have been surprised if he'd ignored her, but he grunted and spoke, his voice rough with either sleep or disuse. "Did John send you after me?"

"Nope. He's still at work. Came on my own."

"Hmm. Yes. He would've given me another day before he came looking." 

"That's because it takes him longer to notice when something's wrong," she said, and sat down on the foot of the bed, sending up a puff of dust when her hand brushed against the wooden footboard.

"What makes you think anything's wrong?" He pulled the blanket up to cover part of his face. Not the blanket that belonged on the bed: he was lying on top of the covers with that old plaid blanket from the sitting room draped over him. It was too small to cover him if he'd stretched out, but he was curled into a ball beneath it.

"Well, for starters, we're in the same bedroom but we're both fully dressed and John isn't here."

She could see the corner of his mouth twitch where it peeked out from behind the blanket but then he pressed his lips flat. "There's no reason for you to be here."

"I was concerned about you. When did you eat last?" She knew he'd likely not had anything since he'd left their house on Tuesday—she'd walked through the kitchen and nothing had been disturbed. Mrs. Hudson must not have realized he was up here, hiding.

"Haven't been hungry."

She bit at her bottom lip and lowered her head to look at her hands folded in her lap. "It's because of us, isn't it?"

He pushed the blanket down past his chin and lifted his head to look at her. "That's rather self-centered of you, don't you think?"

She sighed and turned toward him, pulling her legs up onto the bed. He was on his side in the center of the mattress so there was plenty of room for her. "You seemed fine before we left." She and John had taken a three-day holiday to celebrate their fifth anniversary. Sherlock had seemed more than willing to watch Alice for the duration, but in retrospect Mary was sure it had been a mistake—of course he'd felt left out, invited into their bed regularly, but not welcome to join them for the celebration of their marriage.

He dropped his head back onto the pillow. "No. You're no better than your husband, when it comes to noticing when something's wrong."

She raised an eyebrow and waited for him to continue. 

After a moment he sighed and rolled his eyes. "Watching Alice was...a reprieve. Things had been going downhill for a while, but for three days at least I had something to focus on. A purpose. Alice needed me. Once you got back...." He shrugged the shoulder he wasn't lying on.

She put her hand on his knee and rubbed circles with her thumb, the rough blanket catching at her skin. "Alice isn't the only one who needs you, you know. We can be your purpose." She cringed inwardly when she realized how corny that sounded, but Sherlock didn't seem to notice.

"You and John need considerably less supervision," he said.

She laughed. "Not really. I think it works best when we're all looking out for each other."

He closed his eyes and exhaled. "Look, Mary. I appreciate the concern, but there's nothing you can do. This—this is just how I am. Leave me alone to ride it out, all right?"

"No."

"No?" He cracked one eye open briefly.

"No. I'm not leaving you alone. You still have to ride it out, but you're not going to be alone. You're coming back to the house with me. Alice has been asking where you are. She thinks you got sick of her while John and I were away and don't want to see her anymore.

"That's ridiculous." 

"To us, but it makes sense to a child." She shifted on the bed so she could open her handbag. "I brought you something." She set the folded piece of paper so close to his face that he had to bring his hands out from beneath the blanket and move it to see it properly.

He wrinkled his nose. "So John does know you're here."

"Nope." She folded her hands primly in her lap once more and smiled at him.

"Oh." He tilted the paper, inspecting it. "That's a very good reproduction."

"Well, it's his doctor handwriting, which is easier than his everyday writing."

He folded the paper again. "I've tried numerous prescriptions before."

"How long did you try them for?"

"They upset my stomach."

"So never long enough to have an effect." She paused, then pushed the blanket aside to put her hand on his leg again. He was wearing a very old pair of pajama bottoms, so thin she could feel the hair on his calf through them. "I bet we can keep your stomach under control if I cook for you. Which I do all the time anyway."

He pushed the paper away and closed his eyes again. "I can't," he said, and she was sure that if his eyes were open she would see that they were wet.

"Yeah, you can. You can try, at least. A day, a couple days, a week. Then another one."

"I've been doing that my whole life."

"Yeah. Everyone has, Sherlock. You just don't have to do it alone anymore."


	25. Missing Home

John had sort of hoped that Sherlock or Mary would call him first, but of course Sherlock would be putting Alice to bed while Mary cleaned up the kitchen from dinner and probably did laundry and a dozen other smaller household chores. All John had to do was sit by himself in his hotel room and click through a plethora of boring telly programs.

He called the landline, because otherwise he would have had to choose either Mary or Sherlock, and even if he'd had a clear choice he knew better than to do that. 

Sherlock answered. "We were just about to call you. Alice is finally asleep. I nearly dozed off in her bed. Mary made a full pot of tea even though you weren't here and is currently on her third trip to the loo. Hang on, she's yelling something at me now."

John grinned at the phone, wishing he had stayed home instead of agreeing to attend this conference. He heard Mary's voice in the background, then Sherlock returned. "Mary says to hang up and turn on your computer. We're going to Skype you."

"Ooh, that sounds kind of dirty," John said with a laugh.

"Yes," Sherlock said, and hung up. 

John took off his trousers and opened his laptop and waited for them to call him back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No angst this time! I actually had planned to continue this more explicitly, but it's late and I managed to do 221 words so this seems like a good stopping point. You'll have to use your imagination. I know I will.


	26. Before They Met

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm interpreting this prompt as before they *all 3* met.

John had never been able to remember all five stages of grief, but it didn't really matter because he was pretty sure he was permanently stuck in "anger." Sometimes he was angry at Sherlock, but more often these days he was angry at himself. He knew he should have done something differently—he probably should've done a lot of things differently—but he still didn't know what. Talk Sherlock down off the roof of Barts—yeah. How? No idea. Realize that Sherlock was not okay in the days leading up to his fall? Yep. No problem, except John had always been too quick to trust Sherlock, which meant he was completely unable to see whatever it was he was hiding that had driven him to jump. 

And then there was John's suspicion that he'd failed long before that, anyway. That maybe if he and Sherlock had been...closer, this never would have happened. Had Sherlock been interested in having an intimate, romantic relationship with him? John would never know for sure. Maybe he would've just wanted to cuddle now and then. Or maybe if they'd woken up in the same bed every morning, Sherlock would've known he could talk to John about anything. Maybe he never would've gotten to the point where he thought that jumping off a building was the best option he had in his life. John still wasn't sure if Sherlock had been gay or straight or bisexual or asexual or some other variation that he didn't even fully understand, and John himself wasn't gay, but he also wasn't an idiot, and he knew there were plenty of different ways to enjoy physical pleasure. And he knew he loved Sherlock; embarking on an official relationship wouldn't have been much of a stretch. But no, he hadn't tried, and Sherlock hadn't asked, and now Sherlock was dead and John was alone and angry at everything all the time.

He needed to get the anger under control, he knew, or at least make sure it wasn't obvious to everyone else, especially today. He'd finally given in to Ella's and Mike's nagging and taken a job—at least getting puked on by toddlers and inspecting people's strange moles would take his mind off the rest of his life for a few hours each day.

He got off the tube and walked down the block to the surgery. First day on the job and he was early, of course, but he didn't have a key to let himself in. He hesitated outside for a moment, then steeled himself and knocked on the door. It took a minute or two, but eventually someone came to let him in—blond woman, shorter than him, maybe a few years younger. Pretty, but dressed so she wouldn't stand out in a crowd. The thermometer peeking from the pocket of her blouse and her sensible, rubber-soled shoes told him she was a nurse, and he told himself that he wasn't deducing her like Sherlock would; anyone could see those things. They smiled at each other as she opened the door. 

"You must be Dr. Watson. I'm Mary. Come on in. I'm supposed to show you around."


	27. Siblings/Family Gathering

Mycroft disappeared after the funeral service. Sherlock did not appreciate having to act as the primary host for a house full of distant friends and relatives, so he left John to deal with several aunts while Mary and Alice made cooing noises over someone's new baby and went in search of his brother.

He found him in their parents' bedroom. Again. They had spent hours in here over the past few days, sorting through the clothes and jewelry and various bric-a-brac that their mother had accumulated throughout her life, tracing the mental and physical deterioration of the last few years in the haphazardly-organized room. 

"You need to come out here and talk to people," Sherlock said.

"I know." Mycroft didn't move from where he stood staring out the window into the empty backyard.

Sherlock stepped into the room. An argument with Mycroft would be welcome right now. They could keep it quiet so none of the people socializing in the rest of the house would even know they were fighting, or Sherlock could get loud, which might help clear out some of the excess of people who were here. Before he had a chance to start anything, Mycroft held out his closed fist behind him, still not turning to look at him. "I found something that may be of interest to you."

Sherlock hesitated, curiosity overcoming the urge to yell. Mycroft did tend to understand what interested him, he had to admit. "What?"

Finally Mycroft turned toward him. Their eyes met very briefly and then they both looked down at Mycroft's hand, instead. He opened his fist. "Their rings. They were in the toe of a pair of old slippers. She must've taken Dad's after he died, and then put all three together for safekeeping. You know how she didn't trust the hospice nurses."

Sherlock frowned. They had looked for the rings, true, but finding them was hardly of any importance now. "Mycroft. It's over. She's been cremated. Unless you want to toss the rings into the urn with the ashes."

Mycroft sighed and closed his hand again, loosely this time. "I didn't find them so Mummy could have them. I found them for you."

"What use could I possibly have for them?"

"More than I do. There are three rings, Sherlock."

He didn't let himself understand. "Yes, two wedding bands and an engagement ring. I know. Traditional."

"A matched set of three. Does that remind you of anyone? Three people who may be in a particular relationship, one that is decidedly not traditional but undeniably satisfactory to those involved?"

Sherlock inhaled and decided to forgo the facetiousness. "I never—they have offered, John and Mary. Multiple times. To buy a third ring, a match to their two. But I never. It never seemed necessary."

"Just because something is not necessary doesn't mean it would not be welcome, Sherlock."

Sherlock swallowed and stared at his brother. They'd just come from their mother's funeral. The human body wasn't designed to feel this much all at once.

"Take the rings. Use them." Mycroft stepped toward him and Sherlock took a step back, not because he didn't want to do what Mycroft suggested, but because he was afraid he was about to be hugged. 

They were both still for a moment, then Sherlock held out his hand. "Give them to me."

"Gladly." Mycroft tipped the rings into Sherlock's hand; they were heavy and warmer than he expected. He carefully wrapped his fingers around them, pressing them into the flesh of his palm.

Mycroft cleared his throat and Sherlock nodded once, a thank you and an acknowledgement that sometimes he was not such a terrible big brother.


	28. Wedding

"John." Sherlock stood frozen, staring at himself in the mirror. His boutonniere was crooked. They'd dressed at home, putting on the matching gray suits that complemented Mary's mother-of-the-bride dress, but as they waited in the small room off the vestibule of the church, Sherlock had become more and more unsure of himself. It wasn't even worth straightening his boutonniere because— "John!" He shouted it louder so John couldn't pretend he didn't hear.

"What?" John emerged from the tiny loo, hands dripping wet from the sink. Sherlock checked him over quickly—his boutonniere was perfect, as was his tie and waistcoat and jacket, which was good, because John at least had to go through with this.

Sherlock turned to face him. "I can't do this." No, that made it sound like he was afraid. "I mean, I don't think I should be doing this. You're Alice's father. You walk her down the aisle alone. I'm going to go sit in the pew behind Mary." 

John shook some of the excess water from his hands and then put them on the hips—Sherlock grimaced at the thought of that gorgeous suit getting wet. "You are not backing out on us now, Sherlock. It's just butterflies. Get over it."

"I cannot 'get over it,' John. I am not her father. There is a church full of people out there who know I am not her father. It is ridiculous to have both of us walk her down the aisle. You and Mary are her parents. You walk her down and then go sit with your wife."

"Let me get this straight." John shifted his stance ever so slightly; Sherlock was not surprised at the quiet tinge of anger. "You spend over 20 years raising a child with us, that child then asks you to be with her—with us—on one of the biggest days of her life, you agree, and then at the last minute you decide to back out."

When he put it that way, it did sound a bit selfish. "John—"

John cut him off, stepping close but not raising his voice. "Why? I don't even understand why. Yes, there's a church full of people out there, and every single one of them knows that the three of us are all Alice's parents."

"I—" Sherlock cut himself off this time, watching John's face as it cycled through a wide range of emotions.

"And you know how important this is to Alice. Why would she ask you if she didn't want you to be here with us?"

"Because she didn't want to make me feel bad."

"No." John took another step closer and Sherlock backed up until he felt the wall with the mirror on it behind him. John put his hands on Sherlock's elbows, then slid them down until he was holding his hands. He grazed his right thumb over the ring Sherlock had been wearing for nearly a decade now. "Do you feel like you're Alice's father?"

"I don't feel mature enough to be anyone's father." 

He saw John try to suppress a grin and then turn serious again. "Is she your little girl?"

Sherlock nodded.

"Mine, too," John said. "And I'm nervous, too. But this is easy. No speeches, no murder attempts. Much easier than when you were my best man, right?"

"I was high for that."

John blinked at him, then said, slowly, "But you're not high now....."

Sherlock quickly shook his head and John exhaled. "Good. We can get drunk at the reception if you want. After you play the song you wrote. Right now we just have to hold Alice's arms and then let her go and sit down together. All right?"

"I should have at least had a smoke. People are going to see me cry."

John chuckled. "True. But believe it or not, no one is going to be focused on watching you, for once. Come on. It's time." John took a step back but then reached out to straighten Sherlock's boutonniere for him. 

Sherlock sniffed. "I thought no one was going to be looking at me."

"I will be," John said, and winked.

"Don't give me that. You'll be crying so hard you won't see a thing. Our little girl is getting married."


	29. Glasses

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to the Antidiogenes chat room for helping me get the idea for this one when I had no clue what to write!

Alice inherited her mother's poor eyesight, but she requested that Sherlock be the one to take her to get her first pair of glasses. He liked to think this was because she recognized his superior fashion sense, but he knew it was probably because he was the one most likely to agree to stop for ice cream after the appointment.

He sat in the optometrist's office, watching as she read about half the eye chart successfully before starting to make mistakes. It didn't seem to bother her, though, and she definitely enjoyed the interminable process of determining what strength prescription she needed. Sherlock stood up and began to poke around the office rather than having to sit quietly and listen to the doctor repeatedly ask "First, or second?" while she switched the lenses in the phoropter.

Finally satisfied they had found the right lenses, the doctor leaned back from the machine and looked at Sherlock. "We're almost done," she said.

"Good." He set the model of the eyeball he'd been examining back on her desk. 

"Usually it's the kids who play with that," she said, and then handed Alice a laminated piece of paper. "Can you read me the sentence on line three, Alice?"

Alice looked down at the paper and quickly rattled off the requested sentence, then continued to read the progressively smaller lines until she reached the bottom of the card.

"Very good," said the doctor. "You won't need to wear your new glasses for reading, that's for sure." 

Sherlock stepped toward the examination chair to take a peek at the card in Alice's hand. He raised an eyebrow in admiration. "You certainly did much better than I would," he said, and she beamed in pride. 

The doctor looked up at Sherlock. "Reading glasses?" she asked.

Sherlock scoffed. "Of course not."

"How old are you?"

"That's hardly a question to ask in polite company, now, is it?"

"He just turned 48," said Alice.

The doctor plucked the card from Alice's grasp and handed it to Sherlock. He rolled his eyes and then read the line Alice had started with, then tried to hand it back to the doctor, who crossed her arms and said, "Now do it without holding it a full arms-length away from your face."

He scowled and dropped the card onto the desk behind him. "Fine," he said, and waved his hand at Alice, who giggled and jumped out of the examination chair so he could sit down.


	30. Eyes

"Aw, you've got your daddy's eyes, don't you, sweetie?" 

Sherlock gave the woman a tight smile while attempting to keep Alice within arm's reach of where he sat on the park bench. Alice did, in fact, have her daddy's eyes—dark blue, not light, like Sherlock's—but this woman clearly thought she was paying a compliment by claiming Alice looked like him. It wasn't the first time he'd heard such flattery, though he still wasn't sure if people were just trying to be nice or if all fair-skinned two-year-olds looked vaguely similar. He probably could've held a photo of Alice next to those royal babies that were always in the tabloids and people would have asked if they were siblings. 

The woman settled herself on the other end of the bench, closer than Sherlock preferred, but he didn't have the energy to either object or find another place to sit. He'd spent the night at John and Mary's, and Alice had been delighted to find him there at five in the morning, which was apparently a normal time for her to awaken. It was Thursday, the only day John and Mary both worked a full shift at the clinic, and Sherlock normally didn't mind spending the day alone with Alice, but he also normally got more than a couple hours of sleep the night before. By midafternoon he'd decided to forgo their usual trip to Regents Park and instead taken her to this smaller park which happened to be right down the street from the medical clinic. He'd texted her parents to meet him there when they were done with work so he could hand off Alice and go back to Baker Street to sleep.

The woman continued to coo at Alice and Sherlock but neither one of them paid her any attention; Alice was too busy collecting rocks and Sherlock was too busy keeping her from tasting any of them. While he applauded her instinct to be thorough in exploring her environment, the smaller stones were a choking hazard and both John and Mary were adamant about teaching her to put only food in her mouth.

He was just about ready to give up and take Alice over to the clinic to wait there, which would be less fun for her but much easier for him to supervise, when Mary arrived, looking far more rested than Sherlock felt. 

The woman on the bench glanced from Mary to Alice and back again, then smiled broadly. "Oh, she looks just like, Mum, too, doesn't she?"

Mary returned her smile but addressed Sherlock. "John will be out in a few minutes. He just had to make a couple referral calls. How was she today?" 

"Active," Sherlock said, and accepted a handful of gravel from Alice.

"Pretty!" Alice declared and Sherlock agreed absentmindedly before returning it to the ground. 

"Pocket, Da! Pocket!" Alice shouted and gave him another pile of gritty dirt, which he obligingly put into his coat pocket this time.

"No nap?" Mary asked, nudging Sherlock's knees with her leg until he slid over to make room for her on the bench.

"Which one of us?" he asked, and she patted him on the thigh.

"Sorry about this morning. I think she's got John's morning gene."

Sherlock grumbled into the collar of his coat. John certainly hadn't stirred this morning when Alice bounced him awake and dragged him downstairs to play with her plastic ponies before breakfast. 

Now that Mary was here to look after Alice, he could leave, but it was easier to stay where he was. The bench wasn't particularly comfortable but it was a nice day and he could close his eyes now. He slouched down and let his head rest on Mary's shoulder and listened as she had a rather one-sided conversation with Alice about whether or not they would be bringing home any of the rocks she was collecting.

"She's got Daddy's curls and Mummy's hair color, doesn't she? Such a pretty darling." The woman next to them was a bit obsessed with genetics, it seemed.

"Mm, thank you," said Mary. 

Sherlock snorted into her shoulder, debating whether to make a comment on the authenticity of Mary's current shade of blond, but refrained when Mary elbowed him in the side.

By the time John finally showed up, Sherlock was starting to doze. Mary flicked at his arm to wake him just as Alice popped up from where she'd been arranging pebbles in a line on the ground. "Daddy!" she exclaimed and barreled down the path to meet him, small bits of stone flying from her hands as she ran.

John hefted his work bag up onto his shoulder so he could catch Alice and lift her to perch on his hip. He carried her back over to the bench. "You three ready to go home?" he asked.

"God, yes," Mary said, and stood up, letting one of the larger rocks Alice had handed her fall to the ground. 

Sherlock kicked it underneath the bench so no one would trip and then glanced up to see their benchmate staring in confusion at all four of them. Sherlock grinned at her, then at John, who stood in front of them, holding the petite, blond-haired, blue-eyed, round-faced girl who was so clearly his daughter. 

John smiled back at him. "Coming home with us?"

"Of course," Sherlock said. He stood up and shook out his coat, sending a small cascade of gravel to the ground. He raised his left hand, offering it to John, who took it without hesitation, shifting Alice to a more secure position as they started to walk. 

"Come on, Mary," Sherlock said, and held his other hand out to her so they could all head home together as a family, pockets full of rocks and all.

**Author's Note:**

> Come talk to me on [tumblr](http://missdaviswrites.tumblr.com) or check out some of my other[ Johnlockary](http://archiveofourown.org/works?utf8=%E2%9C%93&commit=Sort+and+Filter&work_search%5Bsort_column%5D=kudos_count&work_search%5Brelationship_ids%5D%5B%5D=112649&work_search%5Bother_tag_names%5D=&work_search%5Bquery%5D=&work_search%5Blanguage_id%5D=&work_search%5Bcomplete%5D=0&user_id=MissDavis) works!
> 
> I know Johnlockary isn't everyone's first choice of pairings (triplings?), so I really appreciate that so many of you have read and kudos'd this. Thank you to everyone who's taken the time to read these and for all the wonderful comments! You made my day every day for 30 days!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [30 Days of Johnlockary](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8424070) by [The Sign of Tea (NoPlastic)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoPlastic/pseuds/The%20Sign%20of%20Tea)




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